And England Keep My Bones
by RobinRocks
Summary: It's the 1880s and America is desperate for England's attention and a way into his bed. He's not above dragging Shakespeare into it - and definitely not above stealing his skull. For England's birthday/Shakespeare's birthday/400th anniversary of his death.
1. I

Happy birthday to England (on, of course, St George's Day) but, more importantly, happy birthday to Mr William Shakespeare on what _also_ happens to be the 400th anniversary of his death.

To mark the occasion, this fic doesn't just have a sprinkling of Shakespeare. He's pretty much the main event.

The title comes from Shakespeare's lesser-performed _King John_ ; the line is spoken by Arthur, Prince of Brittany... who dies by falling off a wall.

And England Keep My Bones

I

"Do you have any idea how depressingly desperate you seem?"

Canada, already dressed for dinner in the doorway, watches America preen, attempting to tame himself into brushed and balding velvet. His suit is out-of-fashion, ancient, barely younger than George Washington. He's had it for years, the only one he owns.

"I don't recall asking your opinion," America retorts, tugging and tugging at his bowtie. It won't sit straight no matter what. He knows he hasn't tied it right but there's no way in hell he'll ask for help from Canada, who is too smug for his own good these days.

Canada, of course, knows how to tie it properly because he paid attention when England taught him. He doesn't say it but they both know that's why.

"It's not really an opinion," Canada says. "It's a fact. People have noticed."

"Oh?" America falters, then rolls his eyes. "What people, exactly?"

" _Which_ people." Canada shrugs. "Francis, of course. He finds it too amusing for words."

"To Hell with Francis. He can get gossip from the back of a matchbook." America scowls at his twin. "Besides, this is all pretty rich coming from you, if you're going to insist on bringing up Francis. Do you think I don't know that you fuck him?"

" _Alfred_!" Canada starts off the doorframe. "There's really no need for language like that!" he snaps. "To... to be so vulgar–"

"Well, you did start it. Why is it alright for you to roll on your back in the Moulin Rouge for Francis but I cannot even express a passing interest in Arthur without evoking desperation?"

"Because it is quite a bit more than a passing interest," Canada snaps. "Your obsession with him has grown quite unhealthy these past few years – I have seen the letters you send him and some of them are quite lurid. Sonnets they most certainly are not."

"Oh, he opens them? I was not aware. He never replies." America shrugs, checking his cufflinks. "Well, I suppose it can't be helped. He is an Empire, after all, and so busy–"

"And you had not considered that it might be because your letters are borderline sociopathic?"

"They are _not_."

Canada snorts. "Well, I can tell you that he is not remotely interested in you either way so you might as well give up."

"And I can tell _you_ that it's none of your goddamn business."

"It _is_ my business," Canada says. "I am still part of the Empire. You, as I seem to recall, are most definitely not." He folds his arms. "In fact, I seem to recall you fighting a war to get away from him."

"I do not regret it, if that's what you are inferring."

"It was less than a century ago, still. Are you that fickle or are you sick of your own company already?"

"Neither. I have always loved him – I, however, unlike some people, am not in the practice of telling him so just to please him, nor of bowing to his every whim. I hope you have enjoyed these past hundred years of being his colony."

"Just as I hope you have enjoyed these past hundred years of being steadfastly ignored." Canada looks at his pocket watch. "Come, we had better head down or we shall be late. You will definitely have his attention then."

"My intention, perhaps."

Canada looks him up and down. Despite his best efforts – or what passes for them – he still looks unkempt, sunshine spilling out of his shabby suit. He doesn't often get invited to dine with England in London and it's obvious.

Canada holds the door open. "Won't you come?"

"You never did finish telling me all the many legions of people apparently so acquainted with my unsettling desperation."

"Oh, as if I've the time for that. I was hoping to be in bed by midnight. Perhaps on the passage back."

America grins as they start down the stairs. "I suppose that gives you time enough for invention."

* * *

Dinner, though a quiet affair in one of west London's plushest clubs, is not as intimate as America would have liked. Canada's presence, while irksome, he can tolerate: they're twins, he knows him like the back of his hand, he can tell him to shut up. These other men however, six or so, he must school himself with, though he finds them to be varying levels of dull. During dinner – the longest four courses he's ever encountered – he finds himself as far away from England as is possible, plonked instead next to a middle-aged man with a beard and balding elbows. He's a writer, though America forgets his name immediately, and finds to his disappointment that he has not written anything of any real interest.

He learns, in fact, that all of the men around the table are writers of some description, which doesn't surprise him. This is the sort of company England likes to keep on a superficial level: he likes writers far better than politicians but less than soldiers. He's always been a little bit pretentious.

England is resplendent in deep green velvet, glowing against the black jacquard wallpaper of the club. His cravat is like seafoam on the rocks and his pin is shining silver-mounted jet, fashionable with ladies-in-mourning. America often forgets just how fair his flaxen hair is. He supposes he doesn't get out in the fields much, not anymore. Up close he must smell like spices and silks, not hard earth and sweat. America still has flecks of railroad under his nails – quite the contrast to the silver fork and saffron-infused curry. This is how empires dine now. Times have certainly changed.

The young man on England's left is a new find, some upcoming playwright or other with flamboyant clothes and a razor wit. He's sandwiched between England and Canada and enjoying their attention. England isn't exactly hanging on his every word but at least he's paying him some sort of attention, which is more than America has had all night. England barely looked twice at him when they arrived at the club; in fact, he begins to suspect that Canada may have been the one to secure him the invitation to dinner out of sheer pity. A wasted venture, he concludes gloomily, playing with his food. He doesn't like it, it's too aromatic and fussy. He'd kill for some cornbread. He wishes England would look at him, even in disgust.

After dinner they move to one of the back rooms for brandy and cigars. America expects another place of embossed wallpaper and is surprised to find instead a strange old room with a vaulted ceiling and bare stone walls. Instead of the flickering gaslights of the main club, the chamber is lit by dozens of dripping candles set on every surface, flickering off the polished leather of the armchairs scattered throughout. The fire has been set to roaring in preparation for their arrival, the brandy glowing amber at its advent. The strange and sudden faux-Gothicism is so delightfully eccentric that America cheers up immediately. He waits for England to take his seat and skips to its neighbour, flinging himself into it.

"I always knew you were melodramatic," he teases. "Are we having a Halloween party?"

England finally offers him his full attention. He seems irritated.

"I ought to have known that you would be immature about it," he says. "This place was the venue for meetings between myself, Lord Byron and many of his contemporaries. It was decorated to his liking."

America rolls his eyes. He never met Byron personally but legend of his eccentric taste has always far transcended the man.

"Goodness, to have known Lord Byron," the young playwright sighs enviously, sinking into the chair at England's other side. "Indeed, to have called him a friend, to have discussed poetry with him... What a privilege."

"You would have liked him, Mr Wilde, of that I am quite certain," England says. "In fact, I daresay the two of you would have got along like a house on fire."

Wilde smiles, lighting up a cigarette. "Still, how lucky you are, Arthur, to live forever as you do, in full possession of your youth and beauty – if only so you can know all the literary greats that every age has to offer." He grinned. "Myself included, of course."

They share a laugh, Wilde lighting England's cigar for him. America scowls, leaning forward.

"I knew Washington Irving," he says. "Well, I met him in an inn. Once."

Wilde raises his eyebrows at him. "Who on this earth is Washington Irving?"

"He wrote _Sleepy Hollow_ ," America says indignantly. He's pretty sure Wilde is just being obnoxious.

"Oh." Wilde is unimpressed. "Didn't you know Poe? Hawthorne? Melville?"

"'Fraid not. I've been busy, you know, building things. I don't have much time to sit around getting drunk and talking about books."

"So it would seem." Wilde averts his gaze back to England. "Lord Byron... was he truly as eccentric as they say?"

"Oh, certainly." England waves vaguely towards the fireplace. "He used to sit there beside the fire, reciting his newest work, drinking wine from a skull."

"A _skull_?" Wilde repeats delightedly. "A real skull?"

"All too real, I'm afraid. I didn't like to ask where he acquired them from. Between he and Coleridge, it is no surprise that Mrs Shelley conjured such extraordinary horror onto paper."

" _Frankenstein_ ," America pipes up. "I really liked that novel."

"Oh, superbly written, of course," Wilde says dismissively, "but rather fanciful. It ought not to be taken seriously at all."

"A shame," Canada mutters near America's ear. "Perhaps you could have built your own Arthur and spared yourself this humiliation. I have told you that there is no getting through to him."

America ignores him, watching England intently. He doesn't seem that interested in anything, not even Wilde at this point, instead staring at his cigarette. He has to arrest him, shock him, hold him captive.

"Hey, well,," he says, raising his voice to fill the room, to stave off Wilde, "all this talk of writers and skulls reminds me of something I read recently in _The Argosy_."

Another ripple of laughter goes throughout the room, breathed over the rims of crystal-cut tumblers. They are all in on the joke now.

" _The Argosy_?" one murmurs. "Does anybody even read that?"

"I'd sooner wipe my arse with a ten shilling note than that rag–"

"It's about William Shakespeare," America says firmly, speaking over them. "Who, incidentally, England also knew."

England examines his nails. "I did," he says, "but I don't like to brag."

"What about Shakespeare?" Wilde prompts. "What could _The Argosy_ possibly have to say about Shakespeare that we don't already know?"

America pauses, glancing about the room. Despite their mockery, they are hanging on his every word. The atmosphere – ringed in by stone walls and flickering candlelight – is perfect. He drops his voice, basking in their attention.

"It's the story," he says, "of how Shakespeare's skull was stolen from his grave."

There is a long, taut pause – and then another wave of baying laughter. Wilde can barely contain himself, howling.

"Stealing Shakespeare's skull! Can you imagine...?!"

"Who on this blessed earth would have the nerve?"

"What else can you expect from the hacks at _The Argosy_?"

America scowls, shrinking back in his seat. This is not the reaction he had envisioned. God, even _Canada_ is laughing...

"I fail to see what is so ludicrous about it," he says icily. "It is well-known that people steal the skulls of the famous. Mozart, Jonathan Swift–"

"You are awfully knowledgeable about these things," England interrupts suddenly. "A ghoulish preoccupation, perhaps?"

"It... it was in the story."

"Indeed – and it _is_ a story," England says, "and nothing more. I, naturally, was at Shakespeare's funeral when he was buried at Holy Trinity Church in 1616. I have seen his tomb. 'Curst be he that moves my bones' is the inscription. What fool would dare to take his skull from his grave in the face of such a dire warning?"

America shrugs. "I don't see what he could do about it if someone did. He's dead."

"Oh, indulge us, then," Wilde says. "Tell us the story, since you seem so keen to share."

America doesn't want to, not after that frosty reception from England, but his sullenness won't stop their staring.

"F-fine." He clenches his fists on the leather of his armchair. "It seems that a young doctor by the name of Frank Chambers was tempted by a bounty offered by a rich noble to anyone who could bring him the skull of William Shakespeare–"

"Typical hack writing," mutters someone. "There's always a rich noble..."

"A-anyway," America goes on, glancing at England – who is staring at the bottom of his glass. "He, uh, Dr Chambers wants the money so he assembles some grave robbers and one night they break into the church where Shakespeare is buried. They shatter the stone slab over his grave and start digging–"

"How could they dig through to the vault?" Wilde interrupts. "There's the flaw in the story right there."

There is a murmuring of agreement throughout the chamber. America scowls.

"There _is_ no vault," he says primly. "They dig with their bare hands to about three feet and find the skull–"

He gets no further, cut off once more by shrieks of laughter from intoxicated writers.

"No vault! No coffin!"

"They did it with their bare hands!"

"And at only three feet! Who buries a corpse three feet deep?"

America clams up, retreating once more, angry and humiliated. Canada leans in.

"I did warn you," he says. "You cannot impress him – least of all here."

"Shut up, Matthew." America turns his face away, looking instead once more – as ever, at England–

Alarmed when he meets his gaze quite unexpectedly. England is staring right at him, unblinking. He looks rather pale, his fingers white around his brandy glass. Wilde hasn't noticed, neither has Canada; nobody, in fact, the strange little gathering in the style of Lord Byron rinsing about them, oblivious.

...Well, he would know, wouldn't he? He was _there_ , after all.

(Oh, yes, he certainly has his attention now.)

* * *

This story was inspired by a documentary that aired recently on Channel 4 here in the UK, entitled _Shakespeare's Tomb_. It was an incredibly interesting investigation of Shakespeare's very weird-looking grave (I have seen it in person, it is indeed very strange, with a much shorter engraved slab than the other four members of his family buried alongside him). Given the inscription on his tomb that warns that he not be moved, the Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-Upon-Avon refuse to open up the grave to investigate (and rightly so!). However, a recent study using Ground-Penetrating Radar (GPR) uncovered oddities about the grave without having to open it: the grave itself is actually much longer than it looks, there is evidence of disturbance/damage and subsequent repair at the head end of the grave and Shakespeare and his family were not, as previously thought, buried in a grand vault. In fact, the GPR showed that not only was Shakespeare buried at a depth of only about three feet, he and his family were buried without any sort of coffin whatsoever.

Alfred's tale about the story of the theft of Shakespeare's skull that he read in New York pulp publication _The Argosy_ is true; the story was published in 1879 and up until now has been dismissed as a lurid tale and nothing more. However, with the new evidence, the fact that the story's author knew that Shakespeare was not buried in a vault (as was previously believed) and was at a depth of only three feet (an unusually-shallow depth, not one you would make up), coupled with the fact that the GPR scans show definite disturbance to the grave at the head end gives credence to the fact that Shakespeare's skull may indeed have been stolen from his grave by trophy-hunters. This was very common at one time, with Alfred's examples of Mozart and Jonathan Swift both being true. Unfortunately, if it _is_ true, it means that nobody has any idea where Shakey's skull actually is.

Maybe Hamlet knows. XD

I tend this to be short and sweet. Well, not sweet. But short. Maybe.


	2. II

Ahh, my apologies for the hiatus. I had a very busy May indeed! I know I really need to finish _The Waning_ , ahaha, but I didn't want to neglect this weird little fic too much considering it was supposed to be an England's birthday/Shakespeare's anniversary thing in April... T.T

(I know, I know. Nobody is surprised.)

And England Keep My Bones

II

America sleeps late the next morning, halfway-hungover, completely humiliated. Last night had not been a success, with England's mood taking a sudden black turn in the aftermath of America's ill-received story. Even Wilde had grown wary of him, leaving him to stew, and America's further attempts to engage him in conversation had proved fruitless. He had stayed barely half an hour more before rather abruptly excusing himself, leaving a gaping hole in his absence that the remaining party sought to fill with drink. America might have gone after him – had he not been so unsteady on his feet by then. Overall, not exactly the desired effect.

It's nearing eleven o' clock by the time he finally exhumes himself, only bothering to half-dress. He can't stand cravats and topcoats and seizes every opportunity he can to forgo them. He doesn't have much to do today – just a meeting with the American ambassador in the afternoon – and he doesn't feel much like eating so he takes a cup of coffee into the study. It's a beautiful morning, golden sunlight streaming in through the windows – much too bright for his pounding head. He feels like he's getting old as he rather grouchily draws the curtains. He remembers England used to do this back in Boston, particularly on Sunday mornings, and how he used to lie on the chaise lounge with his arm over his face, moaning that he would never drink again. Not a bad idea, honestly.

He rather feels like reading _Frankenstein_ , perhaps just to spite Wilde, so he takes the handsome leather-bound copy from the shelf and retreats with it and his coffee to the far corner of the American Embassy's spacious study, settling down to enjoy it. He's read it quite a few times already – it's one of his favourites, the idea of a corpse being given life anew by harnessing science endlessly intriguing to him. A pity he was not in a position to take Canada's advice and create his own version of England all for himself. At this point, he does rather feel like it would be less effort.

An hour or so later, the dregs of his coffee gone cold, there is a knock at the door and one of the aides leans in.

"Excuse me, Mr Jones." The aide bobs into a small bow. "You have a visitor to see you, sir."

"Oh?" America lazily lowers his book. "I was not expecting anyone."

"He confessed himself that it was sudden, sir, and apologised for the intrusion."

It's probably just Canada. America waves his hand dismissively. "Fine. Show him in."

"Of course, sir."

Ugh. He still feels awful and doesn't particularly want to see anybody – _even_ Canada, who has probably come to be a know-it-all about the whole thing once more–

"I hope you won't mind my coming unannounced," England says briskly, sweeping into the room. "I am on rather a tight schedule and I hadn't the time to send my card ahead."

"A-Arthur!" America flings the book aside, scrambling to his feet. "I-I didn't think... Well, that it is you, I was not–"

"I can surmise that." England eyes his uncombed hair, his untucked shirt, his bare feet. "I see you are as slovenly as ever."

"I did not know you would be coming," America snaps. "Do you think I sit around all day primped and preened in case the occasion presents itself?"

"Clearly not." England, of course, is as finely turned out as ever in smart smoky grey, his waistcoat and pin a matching shade of sapphire. He glances about. "Why is it so dark in here?"

"I pulled the curtains." America is blunt. "I'm hungover as hell."

England smiles sarcastically. "Why, Alfred, I was not aware that you drank."

"There wasn't much else to do after you ran out last night. Somebody had to carry Mr Wilde to his cab."

"Indeed." England presses his hands together. "That is, in fact, why I am here."

"What? Wilde?"

"No – the reason for my abrupt departure."

America shrugs uneasily. Half of last night is kind of a haze, really. "Something I said to do with the skull story, I suppose?"

"Yes. The unusual burial depth of just three feet, the absence of a coffin or a vault... These are all details that are true, Alfred. I was at William's funeral, I can attest to their accuracy."

America tilts his head. "Are you saying that you think... it is true?"

"I could not say for certain without having read the story that purports to detail the theft myself – hence my coming here." England raises his eyebrows. "You ought to know that _The Argosy_ is hardly a well-respected magazine, particularly in my country. I could not, of course, comment on the taste in New York."

America smiles sourly. "Naturally."

"My point is that I have found it impossible to lay my hands on a copy of the magazine in question. I have been all over London by cab this morning in pursuit of the wretched thing and I have come up empty-handed. Thus, I have come to you. I suppose it is unlikely that you would have the magazine here with you but I–"

"I do have it," America says brightly. "It is upstairs in my room. I brought the last few editions over with me for light reading on the ship."

"A happy coincidence indeed. You will, of course, not object to my borrowing it?"

"Of course not." America bounds past him. "Come up with me and I'll get it for you."

"I hardly think I am going to come up with you to your bedchamber," England says witheringly. "I shall stay here and you can fetch it."

"Well, you might be sitting there a while," America replies, opening the study door, "because I have no idea where it is." He gestures to the hallway. "Your choice."

England flounders for a moment, looking half-scandalised and half-exasperated, before finally letting out a breath. With a terse nod, he follows America from the study and upstairs.

America's room at the American Embassy is cool and spacious and looks like it's been hit by a bomb. He hopes that England recalls well enough that he's always been messy and won't judge him too unkindly; still, he curses inwardly that he didn't make his bed. The rumpled sheets, the bare mattress, it seems so embarrassingly intimate given that England pointedly ignores his letters suggesting that they, ah, _share_ , so to speak. America glances guiltily at him, finding his face completely blank.

"I am rather busy, you know," England says, observing his pause, "so if you would kindly find the magazine, I'll be on my way."

"O-of course." America goes to the armchair by the window, removes a pile of books and a crumpled cravat from the seat and gestures to it. "Please, sit down." He cringes inwardly at his formal tone, laid on thick like butter.

"Thank you." England sits, taking off his gloves. Climbing into his lap for a story before bed suddenly seems like it happened only in a universe parallel to this; England is immovable, cold, carved of marble.

"Should... should I send down for some tea?" America asks this rather lamely, moving half-heartedly towards the door.

"No, don't trouble yourself. I have no intention of imposing upon you for much longer."

"I see." America stops again. "I'll, uh... just find the magazine, then."

"If you'd be so kind."

This should be a victory: this is what he has suggested non-too-subtly in his letters, lurid in their luring England to his bedroom. Now that it has become real, however, his nerve fails him; and England, he thinks, must know this, sitting silent at the window with one leg crossed over the other. Sometimes he forgets how old he is, just how much he's seen.

He certainly sees right through America.

He begins to go through one of his half-unpacked trunks, looking for the magazine. He hears the grizzle of a match behind him, smells the sudden bitter punch of smoke. England smokes far more than he ever used to; and eats more and drinks more and dresses in finer clothes, the makings of a grand early death in a human. In a nation, an empire, however, they are nothing more than baubles, by-products, empty engagements with the huge and sudden weight of wealth. America sees right through him, too. He is stained-glass: gorgeous, transparent, only for show.

He wonders what he was like when he knew Shakespeare.

"Arthur," he says.

"Yes, Alfred?" England doesn't even look up.

"I was wondering..." America takes a breath. "...Why is it that you never answer my letters? Is it... that you find them inappropriate?"

He bites his lip, not turning around, bracing himself for the answer; that England finds him disgusting, immoral, laughable–

"Oh, do you write me letters? I was not even aware."

America falters. He turns to England, who is looking at the ceiling.

"I... I have written you a great many letters for several years–"

"Yes, well, I am very busy these days, I'm sure you can understand that, so I have Matthew sort through my mail. He passes on to me only correspondence of the utmost importance – trade proposals and the like – so if your letters are nothing more than idle pleasantries, you'll forgive him for not bothering me with them."

A pause. "I-I see." Given that England used to send lengthy replies to his childish misspelt scrawlings from Boston, this is hurtful. He resents Canada for not admitting that this is the case. "Well, I suppose... you are busy–"

"Oh, frightfully so."

"Yet it seems," America goes on carefully, "that you've time enough cultivate friendships with the likes of Mr Wilde."

"I've got to get a bit of intelligent conversation somewhere," England replies boredly. "Besides, one might argue that I'm simply attempting to recreate the Romantic era. Those evenings spent with Byron and the Shelleys were hugely enjoyable to me."

"If you are attempting to relive your youth," America says coolly, "then perhaps you might turn your attention to _me_ instead of Mr Wilde."

"Hmm." England examines his cigarette. "You say that as though you are unchanged from back then."

"Well–"

"But we both know just how different things are now. Neither of us are who we were back then, America. I think it would serve you well to remember that."

"I do remember that, thank you all the same," America says, growing annoyed, banging noisily around in the trunk. "I am, after all, the United goddamn States of America."

"Indeed you are," England says pleasantly. And not good enough for me, his voice sings. He doesn't need to answer those letters. Matthew's silence on his behalf is more than loud enough.

"You are, at least, still fond of Shakespeare," he says. It's almost a challenge. "Enough to care about the whereabouts of his skull, at any rate."

"Oh, yes, he was always my favourite. Even Byron, even Wilde... He was truly of another realm."

"Why, then, do you settle for an echo of the Romantic? Why not chase after Shakespeare instead?"

"That world cannot be recaptured. Besides, I have far more than I did back then. Pretending to be in some filthy pub in Tudor London... why on this earth would I want to do that?"

 _You foolish boy._

America shrugs, says nothing. He comes up empty-handed in the first trunk and moves on to another. He sees through him, yes – right through, with nothing underneath, stripped of all substance. It's like he leaves his heart at home; or has shed it, lost it, buried it deep, filled up the cavity with jewels and silks and words with no echo. Is this how he talks with Wilde? Is this the depth of his evenings with Byron, with Shakespeare – is this posturing the intelligent conversation-?

Or is England being this vague on purpose – so as to not encourage him, give him nothing to cling to? With an unpleasant start, he realises that this is more likely the case. He is no Dickens, no Conan Doyle, no Wilde – and certainly no William Shakespeare. England thinks there's nothing in his head worth bothering about. America, to his detriment, has underestimated his unkindness.

He unearths the copy of _The Argosy_ at long last – but now he doesn't want to hand it over, at least not without a fight.

"You know, Arthur," he begins (because he's stubborn if nothing else), "I don't simply read _The Argosy_. I'm quite the fan of Mark Twain – and I found Darwin's _The Origin of the Species_ to be deeply fascinating–"

"I daresay." England is looking at his pocket watch. "Have you found that magazine yet? I've another engagement at two o' clock."

America exhales through his nose and stands up. "Yes, I have it."

"Good." England rises, brushing himself down. He stubs out his cigarette in the full tray on America's desk. "Then I shan't trouble you a moment longer."

He puts out his hand for the magazine and America brings it to him; he can't help but notice that he takes it rather gingerly, at once squirreling it away inside his jacket. He wouldn't be seen dead with it, clearly.

He should have held it to ransom; not handed it over until England agreed to sleep with him, have dinner with him, treat him like a grown adult with half a brain. (Except maybe he _does_ only have half a brain – because if he was smarter, he'd want nothing to do with someone like England, who is cruel simply for the sport of it.)

"Well, I thank you," England says vaguely, starting towards the door. "You have saved me a lot of trouble."

America nods. "Let me know, won't you?" He leans against the desk casually, just-so. "If it turns out to be the truth."

"Naturally." England nods. "My line of inquiry will have to be postponed for a little while, for I am to be frightfully busy in the coming weeks with a new trade agreement, but after that, I shall give it my full attention." He pulls on his gloves. "If Shakespeare's skull is to be in anyone's possession but that of his grave, it shall be mine." He nods once to America. "Good day, Alfred."

His back to the desk, America nods in reply. "Good day to you, Arthur."

But England is gone, barely waiting for his response. America stares at the empty doorway for a moment, his mouth dry, feeling deflated. For all his bravado, his fantasies, his bold unread letters, he realises he has no idea what England would be like beneath him. He has no concept of how he would look, how he would sound, how he would feel. All he knows of him are old goodnight stories and new curt goodbyes.

Still. Shakespeare's skull.

He pushes off the desk and leaves the room, heading downstairs. Lucky indeed that he's at the Embassy. He has a telegram to send.

* * *

There is a reply waiting for him on his desk when he gets out of his meeting with the American ambassador (an enjoyable two hours of bitching about British trade deals). This was far quicker than he'd been expecting but, all things taken into account, not a moment too soon. He opens it up, sinking against the desk to read the scant few lines.

 _Dear Mr Jones,_

 _With regards to your request for details of the author of our 'Shakespeare's Skull' story, Dr Chambers is currently a fellow of The University of Winchester, England, and, as such, may be reached at his residence there._

 _Yours faithfully,_

 _Frank Munsey_

 _Editor-in-chief, The Argosy Magazine_

The address is listed underneath. America looks at it, then at the clock. It isn't all that far – a few hours, perhaps, with a fast cab. If he leaves now, he could be there just after nightfall. He makes the arrangements with an aide and begins to toss a few articles into the first suitcase he finds, not bothering to fold them properly. He could, of course, set off early tomorrow morning – the aide's suggestion, the more sensible option – but to him this seems like precious moments wasted. The quicker he can get this attended to, the better. He has the advantage of a few days over England and he intends to use them to his gain.

He hears the door creak behind him and straightens.

"Is the cab here already?"

"Cab?"

Canada's voice. America whirls towards him quickly, defensively.

"How did you get in here?"

"One of your aides let me. For goodness' sake, this is an Embassy, not Fort Knox."

"I'm surprised you know what Fort Knox is."

Canada leans against the door. "Arthur did warn me that you were grumpy."

America scowls. "Sounds like he can't stop talking about me. Did he send you over here?"

"No. He simply mentioned that he had been by earlier."

 _I'll bet he didn't say why,_ America grumbles inwardly.

"Anyway," Canada goes on, "I came to ask if you'd like to join me for dinner. I know you're Isolationist, as you like to call it, but it isn't good for you to be holed up by yourself all the time."

America pauses. "Will Arthur be joining us?"

"No, he is busy. So, you will be glad to know, is Mr Wilde."

America goes back to his frenzied packing. "I'm afraid that I too am busy."

"Doing what, fleeing the country?" Canada nods towards the case. "Did Arthur give you your marching orders?"

"Of course not." America snorts. "Besides, since when do I do what Arthur tells me?"

"That might be the problem." Canada doesn't seem too bothered about the rebuke – relieved, even. "I think he rather feels that anything he says to you goes in one ear and out the other."

"Sometimes," America agrees, "but not today. I know he wants that skull, Matthew. He told me himself."

Canada frowns. "Skull?"

"Shakespeare's skull, remember? From the story I was telling last night? Was nobody but Arthur listening to me?"

"I vaguely recollect." Canada waves his hand. "Besides, Arthur was the only one you were trying to impress."

"Well, it turns out that it is true – or so Arthur says. He said that the details of the grave are true and so unusual that they could not be guessed at correctly. He came here himself this morning to ask for the magazine in which I had read the story."

"I see." Canada raises his eyebrows at the suitcase. "And you are...?"

"I am going to call on the residence of the story's author, one Dr Frank Chambers."

"At Arthur's request?"

"...Not exactly."

"I see."

"Do _not_ tell him, Matthew." America glares at him. "I am hopeful that I can recover the skull and–"

"And then what?" Canada interrupts witheringly. "You'll surprise him with it?" He rolls his eyes. "A three-hundred year old skull – how romantic."

America puffs out his cheeks in annoyance. "It's a damn sight better than any of your ideas."

"I would remind you that I'm not the one slavering to get between his bedsheets."

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't need to, would you? You're already snug between Francis'."

Canada groans. "I am not getting embroiled in this conversation with you again."

"Good – because it's none of your damn business." America slams his suitcase shut. "And if you breathe a word to Arthur about what I'm doing then I'll... I'll invade you."

"Right, since that went _so well_ for you in 1812. Still, if it means that much to you, I suppose I can keep quiet. I don't suppose much will come of it anyway."

"Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, Matthew." America throws on his coat and picks up the case. "And for dropping by. It has been, as always, a pleasure."

"Alfred, I am only short with you because you are so very maddening. It seems that you become more eccentric by the day."

America stops again, looking at him. "And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you must realise that England is not remotely interested in you in any way and that your strange fixation with him is becoming unsettling. He is civil to you, of course, but he will never forgive you for the Revolution."

America falters. Before he can speak, Canada goes on:

"Besides, aren't you of the same mind? You didn't want anything to do with him until recently. It was barely a century ago, after all." Canada folds his arms. "...What do you _really_ want, Alfred?"

America blinks. "You sound like you hardly trust me, Matthew."

"You're my brother. I know you better than anyone." Matthew's eyes narrow. "Of course I don't trust you."

"Heh." America grins, clapping his twin on the shoulder as he passes him. "Sometimes I forget that you can be fun. Let's have dinner when I get back – even if it _is_ only so you can, ah, keep an eye on me."

"I'm perfectly serious, Alfred."

"Oh," America agrees, waving over his shoulder at him, "so am I."

* * *

Frank Munsey founded _The Argosy_ in 1882. While the magazine was an American publication, all evidence points to Dr Frank Chambers, author of the skull story, having been British.

Oh, Alfred, what _are_ you up to...?


	3. III

...I feel like I should probably update something, hahaha. T.T

In other news, I was recently at Shakespeare's grave in Trinity Church in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Apparently it's a great place to find Shakespeare, Jesus _and_ Pokémon.

And England Keep My Bones

III

Night has long fallen when his cab pulls up outside the tall crooked residences of the university, the greenish moon gloaming between the Gothic peaks. It's too dark to see the face of his watch properly but he guesses that it must be about ten o' clock. He steps down onto the gravel with his suitcase, fishing out the driver's payment from his top pocket. He can't remember much about shillings and half-crowns and probably hands over too much.

"Keep the change," he says vaguely, starting away.

"You're too kind, sir," the driver mumbles in reply, already lashing the reins at the horse's shoulder. He can't wait to be away from him, it couldn't be more obvious. America is not offended – this is not unusual behaviour in humans, who seem to sense something monstrous about nations even if they are uninformed. People like Wilde – like Shakespeare – are oddities.

The cab crunches away into the night, leaving America alone at the gates of the residency. The tall peaks of the university buildings crest beyond, a fortress-nest of knowledge. The night is so quiet that he confesses to feeling a little unnerved himself, half-way regretting his rash decision – he should have waited until morning. Still, he doesn't feel that he has time to waste – England's attention span is so savagely short these days – and his business here is a macabre one, after all. The backdrop is fitting, if nothing else.

He makes his way down the path, heavily overhung with unkempt trees, towards the arched door of the residency. The place doesn't look unlike a church – as is the fashion in Britain, it seems. The weighty brass knocker is even in the shape of a grimacing gargoyle. The whole place gives off an air of manufactured drama, just the home for the sort of man who would graverob William Shakespeare and then brag about it in _The Argosy_.

He raps loudly on the door, the slam of cold brass echoing in the night. There is a long moment of pause – and then he hears the clatter of footsteps beyond, the clanging of keys, the sharp slither of the bolt. The door creeps open a foot or so to reveal an elderly porter with wispy hair and bifocals.

"Good evening, sir." He glances America up and down – not without suspicion. "The hour is a late one indeed."

"It is," America agrees, "and my utmost apologies for calling at such an improper time. There is, however, an urgent matter that I must discuss with Dr Chambers."

The porter gives a nod, though his eyes narrow a touch. "You have an appointment with him so late?"

"I admit that it is unusual."

"You are affiliated with the University?"

"The American Embassy, in fact."

The porter blinks. "Is Dr Chambers in some sort of trouble?"

"Oh, no, rest assured." America smiles broadly at him. "This is merely a meeting of mutual interests."

"Very well." The porter steps aside, nodding him into the hallway. "Do come in. You'll find Dr Chambers in the rooms on the third floor. All I ask is that you keep it down, the hour being what it is."

"Of course." America nods his thanks and crosses the hall, starting up the staircase. It's an old building in need of freshening up, the carpet balding underfoot, the floral wallpaper faded, the gaslamps bracketed just a little too far apart so that pitch darkness hangs between their reach. The dust, he thinks, can't be much younger than Shakespeare himself.

He comes to the third floor door, squinting at the card in the slot; he can just about make out 'F. Chambers, PhD' in greyish ink and wastes no time in rapping smartly on the wood, the sound bouncing away down the dark staircase. Too loud, too lurid, like most everything he does. He hears a thud and some shuffling beyond – promising, promising. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet as he waits, studying Chambers' name on the card. It's strange to see it handwritten after so many occasions reading it in gritty print, proclaiming its owner's misdeed. What utter gall to confess in _The Argosy_ , of all places...

Dr Chambers, incidentally, is not what he was expecting. When he finally creaks the door open, America sees a youngish, thin, rather mousy-looking man with scrubby hair and ill-fitting glasses. He is down to his shirt-sleeves, rolled to the elbows, and looks like he hasn't slept in a week. He is not exactly the picture he painted of himself in his _Argosy_ story – tall, strapping, hungry for adventure – and thus not precisely what America had pictured.

"Dr Chambers?"

The man shrinks back a little, his fingers curling around the door. "Indeed, sir. May I help you?" He eyes America warily, glancing at his suitcase.

"You most certainly can. I hope you will forgive the lateness of the hour and the suddenness of my calling but I felt the matter most urgent." America smiles at Chambers, who seems rather alarmed, recoiling. "You see, I would like to enquire about the skull."

Chambers frowns. "Skull?"

America's smile doesn't waver. "Why, Shakespeare's skull, of course. I read your tale in _The Argosy_ and I was most interested."

Chambers stares at him for a beat, unblinking, before giving a sudden dismissive wave of his hand.

"Goodness, to come here at this time of night for that!" he scoffs. "You must realise that I made that ridiculous story up. Writing such lurid tales for the likes of _The Argosy_ is easy money." He begins to close the door. "Goodnight, sir."

"I'm afraid I don't agree." America puts his foot in the gap, stopping him from shutting it. "The details in your story are too uncanny. How else could you know that the grave has no vault, no coffin and is barely three foot deep?"

Chambers stops dead, going very white. His eyes become wild and hunted, staring America down.

"I... th-those details were–"

"Exactly correct. An acquaintance of mine can attest to their truth."

Chambers whitens even more. "The grave... has been examined...?"

America smiles cheerily at him. "Perhaps you'd care to discuss it."

Chambers looks like he'd prefer nothing less but now he's in a corner. A nerve in his cheek wavers as he takes a step back, allowing America within. "Please."

"Thank you." America steps inside, very pleased with himself; aware of Chambers shutting the door quickly behind him.

The rooms are typical of an academic, small and smoky and every surface laden with books and papers and various bric-a-brac. It is barely lit, just a single gaslight burning low on the far wall, casting hulking shadows of piles of books like misshapen spines up the faded paper. He feels satisfied with himself at being here. England will be worth the effort.

"Can I bring you anything?" Chambers asks warily. "A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"I thank you but no." America turns to him. "I really am only interested in the skull."

Chambers is quiet again, looking him up and down. At length his body sags in defeat. "You are from the police, sir?"

America laughs. "Rest assured, I come on no-one's order but my own. I am not here to arrest you, Dr Chambers."

Chambers' eyes dart upwards again. "Then... you are an academic? A collector?"

America shrugs. "A little of both, perhaps, though neither is an official title. I found your story in _The Argosy_ to be of most interest."

Chambers gives a groan, raking his hands back through his hair. "I should have known better than to tell the truth, even in a publication like that. I had hoped that readers would think it mere fiction."

America tilts his head. "Then why confess at all?"

"Foolishness. I suppose I had hoped to frighten a certain gentleman." Chambers glances at him. "You have read the story, of course, and you should know that all of it is true, including my motive. I was at a gathering and the conversation came around to the ghastly past-time of collecting skulls. A certain aristocrat confessed that he should like to own the skull of William Shakespeare and offered a prize of ten guineas to any man who brought it to him. This seemed too good an opportunity to make such a sum and I accepted the challenge. The details of my adventure you know from _The Argosy_ – what you do not know is what happened next." Chambers' voice lowers. "On my return from Stratford, I arranged to meet with the gentleman to discuss the terms of the transaction. He was not very receptive, even reluctant, and when at last I was permitted to bring him the prize, he refused to believe that it was the skull of Shakespeare. He accused me of having taken the skull from the nearest churchyard despite my recounting of the tale to him. All in all, he refused to pay a single penny for the wretched thing."

"And so you were stuck with it," America finished.

"Yes. I tried to sell it by others means – contacts in academic circles – but nobody would believe that it was truly the skull of Shakespeare. Still, my possession of it made me nervous – I had desecrated the most famous tomb in Britain to retrieve it, after all. I wrote the story for _The Argosy_ , leaving the aristocrat's name a secret, in the hopes that he would become nervous about being exposed and would pay to keep me quiet." Chambers twists his hands together. "However, I confess at this point that I am no longer interested in the money. I would give him the skull at no charge at all if only he would rid me of it."

"Then you still have it."

"Regretfully."

 _Definitely_ worth the trip.

"Well, Dr Chambers," America says, "I would be very glad to relieve you of it."

Chambers looks at him guardedly. "You genuinely want it?"

"I most certainly do."

"And you believe that it truly is the skull of Shakespeare?"

"I do not see what reason you have to lie about it – not to me, at any rate."

"Well, I certainly have no objection to you taking it." Chambers actually seems to wilt with relief. "In fact, I would be very grateful."

America has no doubt of this, following at Chambers' beckon to the farthest and darkest corner; hidden away here, snugly buried beneath a pile of books, is a battered old chest. It is locked tight and Chambers unearths the key, wrapped in newspaper, from beneath a loose floorboard. The chest opens with a screech of thirsty hinges, a cloud of dust exhaling upwards. Chambers waves it away, coughing as he unwraps the ancient red curtain he has hidden his prize within the folds of. He gently lifts the skull out, a smooth yellow-grey in the gaslight, and hesitates a moment before offering it. America takes it, feeling its cool weight in his palms, looking unblinkingly into the blank eye sockets.

"Alas, poor Yorrick," he says blandly. He glances at Chambers. "Right?"

Chambers gives him a tight smile. "I suppose so." He looks quickly at the empty chest. "Will you take it?"

"I would be glad to." America tucks the skull under his arm. "My acquaintance will find this most interesting. I thank you on his behalf."

"He is an academic too? A scholar of Shakespeare, perhaps?"

America grins. "Something like that, you might say."

Chambers doesn't seem like he cares much either way, weighed down with the suddenness of being free from his idiocy. America considers idly what he will fill that chest up with now, what he will fall for next. Just how foolish is this man, anyway?

He stashes the skull in his suitcase, nestled neatly between his shirts and pyjamas. He wonders what England will think of Shakespeare smelling of fresh laundry. He locks the suitcase and picks it up, turning with a nod to Chambers.

"Again, I thank you. I confess that this has been easier than I was anticipating."

"No, it is I who must thank you," Chambers replies, "and most profusely indeed, sir. I was beginning to despair of what I should do with the thing. I never should have stolen from a grave so very clearly marked with a curse."

"Oh?" America grins lazily at him. "Do you believe in that sort of thing?"

Chambers knots his finger together. For a moment he is quiet. "Not as such," he says at length, "but I cannot deny that I have been plagued with both misfortune and a general ill ease since I stole the skull, a feeling that I cannot explain. I assure you that I am very glad to be rid of it."

"Well, I'm not really the superstitious type – I'm more interested in science." America beams at him. "Besides, I get on well with the misfortune of others. It always seems to work out best for me."

* * *

"You were not gone long," Canada says uneasily. He is still in his coat and hat, summoned to the Embassy by America by telegram within minutes of him being through the door. "You must have travelled all night." He pauses. "I trust your endeavour was... fruitful?"

"The absolute jackpot, Matthew." America, who hasn't slept, throws his suitcase on the bed and rips it open, beginning to tear through it. "I went to see this Dr Chambers and I confess I was not expecting him to still have the thing–"

"Wait." Canada frowns. "He actually agreed to see you at such an hour?"

"I suppose I didn't give him much choice."

"What a surprise." Canada rolls his eyes. "And he showed you the skull?"

"Better." America unearths the skull from a bundle of shirts and presents it to his twin. "He gave it to me."

Canada wrinkles his nose in disgust. "For a price, I expect."

"No, he gifted it to me. He was glad to be rid of it. Some superstitious nonsense about a curse on the tomb, said it was giving him bad luck or something."

Aside from disgust, Canada doesn't show much feeling one way or the other. "And how can you be sure that it really is Shakespeare's? That could be any old skull, idiot."

"Would a sane man hide a plain old skull within a locked chest? Do not forget that I called upon him unannounced – he would not have had the forethought to fabricate such conditions for my benefit."

"Perhaps he is not sane," Canada says meaningfully. "And neither, I fear, are you."

"I am perfectly sane," America says. He looks at the skull. "Aren't I, Bill?" He makes the skull nod fervently, the loose jaw rattling. "See?"

"...You're not really going to bring Arthur that awful thing, are you?"

"Of course I am. Look at all the effort I went to! Besides, he _said_ he wanted it."

"I doubt he meant it literally, Alfred."

"Well, how else could he have meant it?" America looks at his watch. "Anyway, to hell with you. I'm going to go and give it to him right this instant."

"You cannot." Canada looks relieved. "He has business to attend to today. He will not be back until late this evening."

America is quiet for a moment, annoyed (less at England and more at Canada, actually). Finally he tosses the skull back into his suitcase and slams it shut.

"Fine," he says. "I can wait."

"You will have to," Canada says coolly. "Francis and I are having dinner tonight. Join us, please, and put this nonsense out of your head."

"...You have told Francis, haven't you?"

"I haven't told Francis," Canada sighs. "I hardly need to – he will say the exact same thing as me."

"That I shouldn't substitute a stolen skull for a bouquet?"

"That you're an idiot with a dangerously one-track mind."

America snorts. "That'd be rich coming from him. You might be flavour of the month but we all know he'll fuck anything with a pulse – Arthur included."

"Alfred–"

"Besides, I think about other things."

Canada doesn't bite. "I dread to think." He turns away. "Dinner, 7 o' clock – and don't bring that damned skull."

* * *

Ultimately this works out for the best – for as wont as he was to turn up on England's doorstep unwashed, unshaven and having not slept, the likelihood of him even getting past the aides would have been slim indeed. Instead he sleeps until three o' clock, bathes thoroughly and spends the rest of the afternoon gently cleaning the skull with a soft cloth. It seems quite imperative to him that they both look their best – cue Round Two with the dreaded bow-tie when the time comes to dress for dinner. He does, of course, bring the skull with him to the club, carefully wrapped inside the emptied-out suitcase, and he sees Canada eye it in despair as he sits down. Luckily France is a master of getting Canada drunk very quickly – likely how he ever got him into bed in the first place – and America doesn't have to be very concerned with him. France is in a cheerful mood, doing most of the talking, and by the end of the meal he is more interested in luring Canada back to his hotel room, allowing America to make his excuses and escape without arousing too much suspicion.

He doesn't know precisely what Canada means by "late", given that sometimes England stays out all night and sometimes he's in bed by nine, depending on his mood. Either way, America doesn't intend to give being turned away a chance, creeping around the back of the vast townhouse and settling in the bushes with the suitcase at his side. From here he can see the windows and balconies at the back of the house: those of England's room and his study. The lights are off in both – either he's downstairs or he's not back yet – but America can wait. He draws his legs up and rests his chin on his knees, perfectly content. It's a warm night and he's well-rested. Besides, Canada doesn't know what he's talking about. Only a sane man could be this patient.

He's beginning to nod off when he hears the doors creak open, shaking himself fully awake to see the lights on in Engand's room. Better yet are the curtains billowing and, after a moment, England himself stepping out onto the balcony. He comes to the rail and turns, leaning his back against it as he lights up a cigar. America fumbles with the case, wrenching it open and pulling out the skull. He scrambles from his hiding place and sprints across the grass, coming to a halt beneath the balcony. He hides the skull behind his back.

"Arthur!" he calls. He can barely contain himself.

England jumps. He whirls, his green eyes livid, cigar smouldering. He exhales through his nose when he sees the culprit.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he snaps. "You frightened the bleeding life out of me!"

"My apologies," America chirps, "but this could not wait. I have brought you a present."

"Alfred, I am really not in the mood for your childish nonsense right now."

"Ah," America grins up at him, "but this is neither."

He brings out the skull, holding it upwards like a trophy, stretching up on the balls of his feet to get it as close to England as possible. There is a long pause, stretched and painful.

"What the hell is that?" England drawls. He exhales again, tapping off his ash.

"It's Shakespeare's skull," America says. "Obviously."

England arches his eyebrows. "Precisely how stupid do you think I am?" His tone is growing impatient, dangerous.

"It really _is_ , though, Arthur!" America waves it hopefully at him. "Here, have a better look." He pulls his arm back, ready to launch the skull at the balcony. "Catch!"

"Don't you dare throw that thing at me!" England snaps.

America stops, pouting. "It's not a thing," he says. "It's Shakespeare's skull."

"It's a skull, certainly – one you pinched from the nearest morgue, I've no doubt. Your behaviour beggars belief sometimes."

America doesn't know what to say. England not believing him hadn't entered his head, not even fleetingly. He blinks owlishly up at him, clutching the skull, dumbfounded.

"Enough of this," England says coolly. "It's almost midnight. Get yourself home before I come down there and put my foot up your backside." He turns abruptly and stalks away. "Goodnight."

"Et tu, Brute!" America shouts after him; and perhaps there's a pause before the slam of the balcony doors.

He could admit defeat and go home, of course, but England will probably tell Canada and then Canada will come to the Embassy tomorrow morning (grouchy with a sore head and a sore ass) and tell him gloatingly that he told him so – which is something that he wants no part in. The balcony isn't high and there is wooden latticework for the rosebushes, an easy climb for him with the skull tucked inside his jacket. He clambers over the rail and creeps across the balcony, keeping just out of sight. England hasn't drawn the curtains and America watches him slinking about half-undressed with a book and his cigar, a long green velvet robe thrown over his unbuttoned shirt. He remembers him doing that back in Boston, pacing while reading, picking up books halfway through dressing. He is easily distracted, always disinterested. Perhaps he has grown bored of Shakespeare's skull already.

(His attention must be arrested.)

America pushes down the handles and throws the doors open, striding forcefully into England's chamber. England starts, dropping the book, vulnerable a moment as he backs against the desk. America watches the drop of his ribcage as he exhales, the gleam in his eyes as they darken.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growls. "I believe I bid you goodnight."

"But parting is such sweet sorrow." America smiles cheerily at him.

"Did you learn a few choice lines before coming here?" England asks in disgust. "To better garnish your theatrics?"

"You say that as though it was not you who taught me to read, Arthur – yes, and armed with Shakespeare, too."

"I am surprised you recall any of it."

"I can remember things if I need to."

"Then perhaps you will remember that I told you that I was having none of this nonsense from you." England wraps his robe about himself. "How dare you come into my quarters uninvited. You will leave at once, Alfred."

"I won't," America replies, taking out the skull once more. "Not after all the effort I went to to secure this for you."

England's green eyes flash. "If you think that I will believe for even one instant that that is the skull of Shakespeare then you are–"

"And why couldn't it be?" America argues. "I went to visit Dr Chambers myself last night, Arthur. This is the skull that he took from the tomb in Stratford. He had it hidden away and had no prior knowledge of my visit. He could not have counterfeited the conditions."

"It is you whom I suspect of having counterfeited the conditions," England says coldly. "Now confess that you stole the skull from some poor bugger's grave and be done with it."

America is hurt. "I cannot confess that," he says, "for everything I have said is true. I called on the tale's author, Dr Chambers, and relieved him of his spoil. Here it is."

England folds his arms. "And why would you have done such a thing. You'll forgive me but it seems like a lot of expenditure for a bit of sport."

"It was not for sport. You said you wanted the skull, Arthur – so I got it for you." Again America holds it out. "So here."

There is a long moment of silence. England does not take the skull, instead staring America down, unmoved, his eyes piercing. America feels the back of his neck begin to prickle; he is not afraid of England but his scrutiny is unpleasant to be on the receiving end of.

"Well?" He asks it sulkily, defensively.

"Well what?" England looks at his nails. "You can take that skull back where you found it, for a start. I certainly don't want it."

"But Arthur!" This is not the grand welcome he had pictured, fast crumbling into yet another failed and humiliating encounter with England's apathy towards him. "It really _is_ Shakespeare's skull! I went all the way to get it for you, I–"

"Indeed," England interrupts. "...And why, pray tell, would you do that?"

"I..." America trails off, his voice sticking in his throat. The words won't come to his mind, never mind his tongue.

"For me?" England goes on. "As a gift – out of the goodness of your heart?"

It sounds so idiotic in England's mouth. America steps back, allowing him to slide past. He wants to seize hold of him, grab him tight, pin him down, but he doesn't dare, instead watching the glitter of the gaslight on green velvet as he moves away. He blends in, a vibrant jewel amidst the clutter of his conquests proudly displayed on every surface: maps, books, weapons, ornaments, jewellery. He never used to be so materialistic – never used to want frivolities like sugar cane and skulls.

He is barefoot, he notices. He hasn't seen England barefoot since Boston.

"Matthew..." America clears his throat, watching England play idly with a carved elephant on his desk. "Matthew says that you don't forgive me, that... you never will."

"Hm?" England glances at him. "I suspect it's the other way around, Alfred."

"...That I don't forgive you?"

"For keeping you as colony for all those years, for refusing to let you go without a fight." England nods at the skull. "That's why I don't believe you would do anything for me out of sheer kindness."

America bristles, wrong-footed. "M-maybe I was trying to... to impress you!"

England snorts. " _Impress_ me? But I'm just Arthur – the stuffy overbearing old tyrant you fought so hard to get away from, remember? You're a fine, strong young nation. What do you care about impressing _me_?"

America glowers, saying nothing. England smiles.

"Again," he says calmly, "exactly how stupid do you think I am? There's only one reason you want me now, isn't there? ...You're the most power-hungry little bastard I've ever come across."

"That's right," America says dully, looking hard at the wall. "I want into your bed, Arthur, so I can kill you in your sleep." He runs his nails over the curve of the skull, letting out a breath.

"And then usurp me," England adds cheerfully. "Steal my crown – and then I'll be another murdered king, Caesar or Duncan or Lear." He looks pointedly, piercingly, at America. "...Yes, perhaps Lear is the best fit of all."

America is resentful, not meeting his eyes. "You're mad," he says.

England smiles at him. "Et tu, Brute?"


	4. IV

So this might seem like a weird fic to update at this time of year given that _The Waning_ is still hanging over my head like Poe's pendulum - however, I do recall promising that this fic was going to get weird and so it will. In fact, the turn it takes in this chapter is fitting for an October update, I think! ;3

And England Keep My Bones

IV

America sits amidst the smoke, folding and unfolding the letter absently, impatient. He spares another glance at it even though he knows it off by heart, even knows the flicks and swirls of the words, the splatch of ink in the bottom left corner.

 _Alfred,_

 _Arthur will be in New York for two weeks on business, commencing November 14_ _th_ _. He said the other day that he has not seen you for much too long (I was as surprised that he mentioned it at all). Perhaps you might use this opportunity – wisely! - to patch things up between you._

 _Matthew_

 _P.S: I am by no means encouraging you to once again begin your obssessive and inappropriate courtship of him. He has not forgotten the incident with the skull._

Canada does, of course, have his uses – he is much kinder than America or England. Still, much of this letter is misinformed. The truth is that nobody has seen America for a good long while – he has spent his time either out manifesting his destiny or holed up at home. He has much to occupy himself with these days, after all. And that besides, he and England don't need to "patch things up", per se – it's not that they ever fell out, at least not on a scale of one-to-1776. It's more that England wasn't very appreciative of his effort to restore Shakespeare's skull to him and America was by turns offended, sulky and thoroughly pissed off. All that, however, was well over a year ago. He hasn't seen England since, true, but a year is nothing to a nation.

(Plenty of time to build, however.)

Still, a few curt telegrams across the Atlantic later and here he is in Grand Central Terminal, awaiting England's train. His business is finished and he has allotted America but a day and night of his time. No doubt he's expecting an apology of some sort – or, at the very least, to be thoroughly impressed. America couldn't vouch for either happening but he has at least made his bed.

He springs up as the train at last pulls into the station, jamming Canada's letter into his pocket. He has dressed nicely for the occasion, not wanting to give England an excuse to savage him right off the bat, and adjusts his cravat in the sleek shining paintwork of the train as it at last judders to a halt. England will be in first class, of course, and America bounces on the balls of his feet outside the first carriage as the smart porters come to each of the doors to open them. It swings back, acutely silent, and after a long moment England emerges from the plush cavern within. He is completely in black, his heavy travelling cloak buttoned right up to the throat, his hat in his hand. He is like oil and gold, solid and sudden in the heart of grimy New York, rich beyond measure – the most powerful man in the world, Caesar reborn. He doesn't move a muscle, turning his keen bright gaze fixedly on America. He must have noticed the stupid grin by now.

"Welcome to New York, sir," the porter says briskly.

"Thank you," England replies, not taking his eyes off America. "Alfred."

America blinks. "O-oh!" He stumbles forward, thrusting out his hand. "Of course!"

England takes it delicately, coming down the trembling ladder, and stands for a moment very carefully putting on his top hat just-so as the porter retrieves his luggage.

"Where is your hat, Alfred?" he asks, not really looking at him.

"I don't like wearing one. My hair sits oddly enough as it is."

"Hm." England is unimpressed, gesturing vaguely about the busy terminal – populated by men and women in hats, admittedly. "You really ought to make more of an effort in polite society, you know."

America snorts. "As if I have the time for that. Besides, out on the Frontier–"

"Oh, of course. Been out chasing the Natives again, have you?"

"Hey, they started it."

"Well, strictly speaking _I_ started it," England says. "I and Francis and Ned and Antonio and Ludwig... Still, you're good at finishing the job, aren't you?"

America scrunches his nose cheerfully. "I suppose so."

"Your luggage, sir." The porter steps down with the two leather suitcases.

"Thank you." England nods to him, giving him a hugely generous tip – although this is because he has more money than he knows what to do with rather than being careless with it (America, meanwhile, is sick to death of being scolded by Canada for his own stupidity with cash).

The gesture is not lost on the porter, who pockets the bill with a fervent nod. "Thank you, sir, you're much too kind – can I take your cases to your cab, it's the least I can do–"

"It's alright, I have them," America interjects coolly, snatching them up, one in each hand. They look heavy but he's so strong they weigh nothing to him. "Come on, Arthur." He leads the way through the bustle, England tipping his hat to the porter and following him rather lazily, putting on his gloves.

"He was only doing his job," he says. "Rather well, too."

"You've a good word for everybody but me, haven't you?" America replies coolly.

"Goodness, are you going to sulk at me already, Alfred?" A sigh. "You invited me, after all. It would have been easier for me to simply sail straight home from New York."

America says nothing as they come to the hansom cab waiting outside. He puts England's suitcases in for him and helps him up even though he's fitter and stronger than he's ever been and doesn't need the hand, really.

"I should have invited Queen Victoria," America grumbles, clambering up opposite him. "She would have been less work."

England puts his hat in his lap, dusting it off. "She would not have accepted. She thinks you're a pain in the arse, to put it politely."

"How is that polite?"

"Well, she's not wrong, my dear."

America gives another snort, annoyed. "Big words from someone who liked Abraham Lincoln so much."

"Well, it was impossible to dislike that man. His intelligence and charisma were to be greatly admired."

"Like Mr Wilde, huh?" America scowls. "Or Mr Byron or... Mr Shakespeare."

"God, you're prickly. Are you still going on about that?"

"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?"

"Perhaps so, you jealous little bugger." England folds his arms and settles back. "At least none of the aforementioned men behaved like a petulant child."

America clams up, irritated. Anything he says now will make it worse. Instead he stares fixedly out of the cab window as it trundles along the grey road towards the old house on Boston's outskirts. England, who will remember it well – it was his, after all – hasn't set foot in it for over a century. Getting him to come here now is momentous, a victory in itself. Perhaps he will shed the skin of Empire at the door.

"You have Matthew to thank for orchestrating this, anyway," England goes on after a long pause. He, too, is watching the world go by beyond. "He is the one who suggested I be kind to you and accept your invitation. I was not inclined to do so of my own volition."

America rolls his eyes. "Is that right?"

"Indeed."

"Matthew's the one who told me you were coming here to begin with. Quite the little shit-stirrer, huh?" He watches England through his eyelashes, waiting for his reaction – a hair-trigger with regards to his precious Canada, do-no-wrong golden boy. He wouldn't know how to revolt against England if the inclination bit him in the ass.

"Well," England says pleasantly, "you are twins, after all. I suppose you're going to have certain similarities that I can't do much about."

Ugh. America wants to be sick.

"You know Francis fucks him, right?" he blurts out. He wants so badly to be spiteful at this second.

"I am aware." England shrugs. "That is his business. He may be my colony but he is also an adult. It's none of my concern who he wants to engage himself with in that regard."

The impression America gets – from England's tone – is that he doesn't really care. His love for Canada seems pretty unconditional. How infuriating.

"Was that your silver bullet, Alfred?" England tilts his head at him. "Do you think I'll be so easily swayed?"

"I just felt that you should know, is all. I'd hate for him to... well, be doing things behind your back."

"The way you used to? Do you think I didn't know about your sneaking out at night to meetings with the likes of Paul Revere?" England gives him an icy smile. "You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?"

America flushes angrily. "Th-then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you shout at me – or stop me?"

"I suppose that was my mistake. I didn't take the rumblings of Revolution seriously until 1775. I didn't think any of your would have the nerve to actually do it. Besides, I thought you were just being difficult, that you wanted me to shout at you. You always were an attention seeker and I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction."

"Your mistake."

"Quite. I definitely underestimated your extraordinary need to get your own way." England grins knowingly. "But I'm wise to it now."

America gives a thoughtful nod. "Looks like it," he replies.

It takes about an hour to get to the house. America lives here most of the year more-or-less by himself, with just a few serving staff that come and go like moths, and the place is beginning to fall into disrepair. England, thankfully, seems too tired to notice what has become of the once-splendid townhouse built at his command, following America up the crumbling path. He doesn't comment on the cobwebs hanging from the doorframe, nor on the haze of dust thick like a fog in the hall. America sees him stifle a yawn as he locks the front door.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks. "Tea – or a cup of coffee, maybe? It'll brighten you right up."

"I'm fine for sustenance," England says. "To be perfectly honest, I barely even need it anymore."

"Oh?" America is interested in this, given that England was definitely eating and drinking the last time he saw him – just a little over a year ago. "Is that common in nations?"

He, of course, is so very young by comparison so he wouldn't know.

"Not in ordinary nations," England says, "but certainly in empires. Ironic, isn't it, for imperial glory built on tea leaves?" He yawns again. "I do, however, still need to sleep – and I am most tired from the journey. Would you mind showing me to my quarters?"

"Of course." America hikes up his suitcases and leads the way, starting up the curl of the staircase. "I thought you... ah, you'd prefer to be in, well, your old room."

There is a beat. America hears England stop on the staircase for the briefest of moments.

"...Yes, I suppose that will be fine." "You hesitated."

"The thought just hadn't occurred to me, that's all."

"I didn't think you would want to share with me."

"You thought wisely. You're much too old for that sort of thing now."

America clears his throat and changes the subject.

"So... you don't eat anymore? At all?"

"I do now and then, mostly for appearance, and sometimes I take the odd cup of tea if it is offered – but the need has left me."

America, who is hungry right now, can't imagine that at all. "But you need to eat to live," he says. "How are you still alive? You haven't even lost any weight!"

"Well, we aren't human, are we?" England shrugs. "It doesn't really matter to me, you know."

"Huh." They come to the door of England's old room and America opens it, letting it swing back. "Well, as long as you still have use for a bed."

With a nod, England sweeps past him into the chamber, pausing in the middle of the floor. He looks lazily about, unclasping his cloak and letting it drop. America leans in and puts his suitcases next to the door – but he stands in the doorway, not daring to take a step beyond the threshold. It would shatter then, he thinks – England, Arthur, standing in the room that once was his when America too was his, captured like a snowglobe, dust spiralling in the sunlight. The room is greyish, ghostlike, out of use since the day England left in 1775 to meet his army in Boston Harbour. America cried on the bed that night but it hasn't been slept in since (and even then America hadn't known if he was upset over England or if he was really just feeling sorry for himself).

He had cleaned the room in anticipation of England's arrival, wiping away a century-worth of dust and grime, but the damage is done, the mirror mottled, the hangings of the bed sun-faded and thin. He notices England looking at them.

"I changed the bedclothes," he says defensively. "They're fresh on this morning."

"Oh, I'm sure."

England unbuttons his jacket and starts to undo his cravat. America watches him, every last little motion of his fingers, not even trying to hide it. He wants to seize him from behind, he wants to wind his hands about him, slither his fingers beneath his buttons, plunge his hand beneath his belt–

England catches his eye and turns away. "You can go," he says, his voice cool; not because he's shy but because America isn't. "I know where everything is."

America exhales and nods. "Fine," he says. "But don't sleep too long. I have something to show you."

"Is that why you invited me?"

"Obviously."

"It had better not be another bloody skull."

"It's not another skull, I promise." America smiles. "You'll be impressed."

"I'll be the judge of that." England waves over his shoulder at him. "Goodbye, Alfred."

America ducks out of the room with another nod. "Sleep well, Arthur." He closes the door with a decisive click.

The lock is an old one, early 1700s, and he no longer has the key.

* * *

"You really _don't_ eat, huh?" America pauses with his own fork halfway to his mouth, watching England stir a watery cup of tea around and around. "Not even a piece of bread?"

"No." England frowns at him. "...I really oughtn't have told you that, I don't know what came over me. It was personal – vulgar, really, to be so forthright about it."

America smiles. "I don't mind."

"Well, it's not really any of your business, all the same."

"You _are_ staying with me, though," America points out. "I would have noticed."

"Hm." England takes the tiniest sip of his tea, barely wetting his lips. "You have oil on your cheek, by the way."

"Oh." America rubs fiercely at his face, a smear of black grease coming away on his hand. "Thank you. I was working while you were asleep."

"I see." England doesn't seem like he much cares but America presses on nonetheless:

"I've been very industrious, Arthur. I really do think you'll be impressed."

"Is it one of those flying machines you're always talking about building? It'll never work, you know. You'll break your bloody neck."

"I will not. It'll fly, I just need to work on it some more." America pouts. "Anyway, it's not that."

"Well, goodness, I really cannot wait."

His sarcasm is painfully obvious but America only grins at him, going back to his food. "You've never seen anything like it," he promises. "And I made it just for you, Arthur – just as you made me those wooden soldiers all those years ago."

"Oh, those. I'd forgotten all about them."

"I still have them somewhere."

"I'm not surprised." England glances lazily about the room – still furnished with the wheezy old trappings of the century before. "It seems that you never throw anything out."

America shrugs. "They're all perfectly good things. A little dusty, perhaps, and a little worm-eaten – but still usable."

"It's like a morgue," England says crisply. "...Or a shrine."

America's smile quirks higher. "I hadn't considered."

After dinner, they retire to the lounge. America wants to take England straight down to the basement but England, as is his way, is awkward and dismissive, saying he wants to smoke first. He settles in the armchair in front of the fire, cigar smouldering between his fingers, perfectly still, not speaking, barely blinking. His eyes are on the painting of Washington above the mantlepiece but he's not exactly glaring, just sort of observing, simmering. America sits on the opposite couch, one leg crossed over the other, jiggling anxiously.

"Do stop that," England says.

"You're not even looking at me!"

"I can see you in my peripheral. That's an annoying habit of yours that you've never grown out of."

"Too bad, huh?" America clears his throat. "Do you want some bourbon? It's from Kentucky."

"I'm perfectly alright, thank you." England actually glances at him, almost smirking. "Trying to get me drunk?"

America purses his lips. "As if you need the help, Arthur."

England laughs, tapping off his ash. "Fair cop."

He looks away again, falling silent, and America watches him intently. He doesn't know what to make of him, really. Even now, he's surprised that he came. It would have been easier for him to have stayed in New York. Perhaps he has a motive.

Still, pot, kettle and all that. He envies himself a century-and-a-half before – the ease with which he had clambered into England's lap, the warmth with which he was received. Motive, again, had been different – back then he had wanted a kiss goodnight, not a good night's kiss – but still, that portrait of George Washington is something rather like a wall. (That and the letters that England didn't so much as open, never mind read.)

"Alfred, you know I'm not stupid, don't you?" England says suddenly.

America jumps, startled by the question. "O-of course I–"

"Because I know what you're up to. I've told you before – last year, in fact, when you had the nerve to climb up into my quarters to show me that wretched skull." He takes another mouthful of smoke. "I know precisely why you're so interested in me all of a sudden. You didn't give a rat's behind until about a decade ago."

America flushes angrily. "That's not–"

"Of course," England interrupts lazily, "the peculiar thing is... if you really wanted to, ah, "marry into power", so to speak, you needn't have budged. You were always my favourite. I would have rewarded your loyalty by now." He points with his cigar at the portrait. "You really have him to blame, you know. You might argue that he robbed you of your birthright."

"Yes – him and Jefferson and Adams and Franklin, to name but a few." America smiles sourly. "But then maybe I would have been a millstone. Maybe you wouldn't be so powerful now if you'd been burdened with me all the while."

England shrugs. "I suppose we'll never know, will we?"

America gives a tight nod, leaning back against the sofa, seething. England has pre-empted him, forcing him to drop the pretence. He knows he doesn't have much to bargain with. If England doesn't want his body then he's not going to want much else.

"So is that your way of saying No Way in Hell?" he asks coolly. "Did you really come all the way here just to tell me that – because you needn't have bothered. You could have just finally replied to one of my fucking letters."

"Oh, you're offended." England rolls his eyes. "You know, despite everything, I still find myself rather fond of you, Alfred. Lord knows why – but that's why I came."

"But you're not interested."

"Not in sleeping with you, I'm afraid. But that's all a means to an end anyway, isn't it? That's not really what you want, either. The only thing you lust after is my power."

"I don't think you're being very fair," America growls.

"Well, it's the truth. I've known you far too long to pretend that it's anything but. That's really why you rebelled against me in the first place. You wanted more power and I wasn't willing to give it to you."

"...And you're not now, either."

"I'm afraid not." England taps off his ash again. "So _that_ , dear boy, is where we stand. If you were planning on creeping into my room tonight, I'd advise you to think again."

"H-how low do you think I am?!"

"I don't think I really want to put a number on it."

"Well, that is fucking rich coming from you, Arthur!"

"Of course." England shrugs. "You did learn from the best." He takes one last drag on his cigar and neatly stubs it out. "Anyway, what is this thing you're so desperate to show me? Let's get it over with so I can retire. I have some legislation to catch up on."

America shoots him an ugly look. "Oh god, how exciting. You know you have people who will do that sort of thing for you, right?"

"That is what I would expect from you, Mr Manifest Destiny. I, however, prefer to do it myself."

"Now who's slavering for control?"

"Power and control are not the same thing." England rises. "Now come along."

America does get up, huffing and puffing like a teenager. On the subject of control, he knows that he is no longer in charge (in his own house, yet!), something that must be rectified at once.

"After you," he says tightly, holding open the door. "Do you want to change, perhaps? We'll be going down into the basement."

"I daresay we won't be long." England rubs roughly at the faint smear of oil residual on his cheek. "It's only another of your contraptions."

America pulls his head away. Being touched by him now is unwelcome. He might as well have spat on a handkerchief. He could be tender, at least (...or does he fear that might be too encouraging?).

"I think you get off on being heartless, Arthur."

England smiles, halfway-shrugs. "Perhaps."

"If I declared my undying love for you and got down on my knees and begged you to be mine, you'd still tell me to piss off, wouldn't you?"

"Naturally. You'd be lying, of course."

"Heh." America musters a grin. "Maybe so."

He takes up a lantern and leads the way through the wheezing old house to the basement. Every now and then he feels compelled to look back over his shoulder – just to check that England is still there, still following. England catches his eye and smiles indulgently.

"What's the matter? Afraid I'll stab you in the back?"

"I know you, Arthur. You'd stab me from the front."

The keys jangle as he unlocks the heavy basement door, sending it swinging loudly against the wall. The place is broad and dark and cold, heaped with crates and clutter along the lengths of the walls. The middle of the chamber, however, is dedicated to his project, cleared to make room for the table, the tools. The stink of burnt oil simmers in the stagnant air. There's another smell, too, earthen and foul. Decay, pure putrefaction, _eau de_ battlefield. They both know it well.

"Christ, what in hell are you _doing_ down here?" England asks.

"Homemade morgue." America, sarcastic. "I just loved the Civil War that much."

"Oh, I daresay."

England has his handkerchief over his nose; America sees it as he puts down the lantern, rolling his eyes.

" _Please_. As if it's any worse than a Medieval street."

"And how would _you_ know?"

"I can read, remember? Pardon me if it's not Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde–"

"Well, quite. _The Argosy_ is more your thing, isn't it?"

"For light reading. I confess I am far more interested in science these days." America crosses to the table, over which there is a large sheet thrown. "I mean, electricity is completely amazing. We haven't harnessed even _half_ of what it can do. I mean, lights are swell but that's only the beginning!"

England has dropped his handkerchief in favour of examining his pocket watch. "You're babbling," he says.

America only grins. He's too buoyant to be bothered by him now. "Well, if we're going to discuss reading material... You've read _Frankenstein_ , right?"

"Of course. I was privileged to read Mary Shelley's original handwritten manuscript at one of our meetings, in fact." Now England eyes the table and the sheet warily. For the first time, he seems the tiniest bit on edge. "...I know it is your particular favourite, you little ghoul."

"Oh, you remembered!" America smiles. "I _was_ hoping that this would be fun for both of us. So you recall the skull, of course. I said it was Shakespeare's, you said it wasn't–"

"Alfred, what–"

"Well, I realised that I had all the evidence and you had none. There was no reason for you to believe me, was there? I mean, you're right – I could have stolen the skull from a nearby morgue. So I got to thinking – what would be the best way to convince you that this really _is_ Shakespeare's skull? And the answer took a while to come to me, I admit, but it's so obvious now: get him to tell you himself."

America seizes hold of the sheet and whips it off triumphantly. On the battered table is a grotesque assortment of metal bars and springs and pistons and some bones, too, all bolted together in the vague form of a human body. Crowning this, placed atop a spine woven of mismatched vertebrae and gleaming wires, is the skull.

"...Well?" America looks at him expectantly.

England, who seems by turns shocked and completely revulsed, scowls at him. "Please tell me this is your idea of a joke."

"Science is no joke, Arthur!" America seizes him by the arm and pulls him closer to the table; taking him by surprise, perhaps, because otherwise he would have been immovable. "Come on, you need a better seat than that!"

"For what?" England's voice is withering. "Alfred, this is completely depraved." He takes a step back. "Dismantle it at once. Regardless of whose skull that is, this is incredibly disrespectful."

"I most certainly will _not_ dismantle it! Do you have any idea how long this took me to put together?" America looks subtly at the staircase, at the open door. If he doesn't do this quickly, England is going to walk out on him. "Anyway, I did it for you so, uh, you're welcome."

"I am not going to _thank_ you for this!" England snaps. "How _dare_ you suggest that I be grateful!"

"Oh, but you will be," America says, moving around the table. "Just wait and see."

He drops to his knees, pulling back the heavy oilcloth dropped over the generator. This he has fashioned himself for his needs, a pick-and-choose exercise from the work of both Edison and Tesla: a heavy iron case conceals the dangerous inner workings, known in his experience to give off sparks, and a simple lever transfers the harnessed power into his creation. A few last-minute tweaks this afternoon have ensured that England will not make a fool of him now.

Speak of the devil, England is brushing down his waistcoat in disinterest. What else can he expect from a creature that doesn't even have an appetite any more?

"Alfred, I'm going back upstairs," he says coldly. "I pray that you put that skull back where you found it – and the other bones, besides."

America ignores him, working quickly – connecting wires, flipping switches. A faint whine begins to build, echoing off the bland basement walls, and with it comes the sizzle and burn, the stench of science. He can feel his hair beginning to stand on end. England turns again, perhaps to scowl at him once more for good measure, and America takes hold of the lever and slams it downwards. At once a bomb of manufactured electricity surges up the tangle of wires and all throughout the construction atop the table; bones and mechanics alike twitching and trembling madly as the energy pulses through it. He gives it about half a minute, practiced, and then shuts it off. The thing falls still, smelling of burnt bone, smoking.

England, his eyes narrowed, looks at America. "Is that it? After all your talk?"

"Give him a moment," America replies, straightening. He folds his arms, tilts his head, lowers his voice. "...William?"

There is a long pause – and then the skull slowly turns towards him. The shoulders quiver, the elbows bend, and his creation slowly begins to push itself up. America claps his hands together delightedly, pressing his fingertips to the curl of his smile. He looks up at England over his glasses – but even slightly blurred, he can see the look of utter disbelief on the smug bastard's face.

"Oh ye of little faith," he says cheerfully, "on all counts. You can apologise any time, Arthur."

"I'm not apologising to you, you little swine," England hisses; but he's not looking at him, his green eyes fixed on the constructed being on the table. "This is... this is absolutely–"

"Unbelieveable? Amazing? _The_ most incredible thing you've ever seen?" America examines his nails. "I rather put Wilde and Byron to shame, do I not?"

England looks directly at him. "This has to be a trick," he says flatly. "You couldn't have done this, Alfred."

America smiles pleasantly at him. "You think I'm too stupid."

"I _don't_ think you're too stupid, in fact," England growls. "I know how fucking intelligent you are – it's maddening to see you play the fool as you so often like to." He looks again at "William". "But this... this is impossible, you _couldn't_ have—"

"Arthur, _you're_ the one who's stupid if I have to tell you _again_ that this really is Shakespeare's skull. I had to do all this just to get you to believe me and you still deny it?" America shakes his head. "But fine, if you insist on being difficult..."

He hoists up the creature from the table and sets it upright on the floor, pulling away the wires connecting it to the generator. It wavers a little, taking an uneven step forward, and he holds on until it balances itself.

"You'll have to forgive him, he's always a bit disorientated when I first wake him up," America says. "He needs time to warm up, I suppose."

"You've... done this before?"

"Of course! I wasn't going to wait until you finally showed up to try it. What if it hadn't worked?" America puts his fingers to the skull's worn-down teeth and pries open the jaw, revealing a greyish sewn-in tongue. "Alright, you still have your tongue. I though a rat might have gnawed it out."

"You put a tongue in the skull?" England asks sharply.

"Of course." America rolls his eyes again. "He wouldn't be able to talk otherwise, would he? I mean, it still isn't great – hardly the eloquent William Shakespeare you remember, I'm sure – but it's the best I can do for now."

England clenches his fists. "For the last time," he says, "that is not Shakespeare's skull."

"Oh?" America tilts his head at the quivering creature. "What's your name?"

There is another long pause, processing, and then:

"William... Shake... speare."

The voice is croaky and leaden, a real effort, but America turns gleefully towards England.

"See?"

England is looking rather ashen-faced by this point but he shakes his head. "Th-that means nothing," he says. "You could have taught it to say that when asked!"

"He's not a parrot," America says, offended. "Fine – William, what is your occupation?"

Another pause. "Play... wright."

"Good." America points at England. "And who is this? Do you know him?"

A laborious nod.

"What is his name?"

"Arthur... Kirk... land."

America looks again at him. " _See_?"

"None of that means anything," England snaps. "Those are all simple questions with simple answers. Even my name is something you could have taught him."

"Alright then." America steps back. "You knew him, after all. _You_ ask him something."

"Oh, I'm not indulging this nonsense of yours any longer–"

"Ask him something, something I wouldn't know, and if he can't answer you then I'll admit defeat." America looks piercingly at him. "Isn't that fair?"

England is silent for a moment, his jaw set, and then he gives an angry sigh. "Alright, if it will shut you up..." He comes a step or two closer, eyeing the creature up and down, thinking for a moment. "Very well, then, William... The night you and I and Ben Jonson got drunk and sneaked into the Rose at one in the morning, rewrote one of Marlowe's plays and replaced the original with our copy for the next day's rehearsal... What year was that?"

He looks at America, smug once more. America purses his lips, annoyed; that isn't a fair question to ask man who's been dead for three hundred years, especially not if he was paralytic at the time. There is a considerable wait of silence. Unsurprising.

"I knew it," England says. "That is not a story that I ever told you, Alfred, so you couldn't have trained him to–"

"1592." A creak, another pause. "On the... fourteenth night... of May."

America side-eyes England. The look on his face says it all.

"He got it right, didn't he?" He nudges him. "Didn't he?"

England is lost for words. He shakes his head in disbelief. "This... can't be... You couldn't have–"

"But I did. For you."

England opens his mouth to speak but suddenly William reaches out and seizes his hand, clasping it within his fizzing cages of steel and bone. With trembling effort, the being drops to one knee, pressing the curve of his yellowed skull to England's hand.

"This royal... throne of kings... this scepter'd isle... this earth... of majesty... this seat of... Mars..."

England has gone very white, looking down at him, completely still; and William mumbles thickly, struggling over the words, oblivious.

"What's he saying?" America asks. "That's from one of his plays, isn't it?"

"It's _Richard II_ ," England says faintly. "Act II, Scene I."

"Oh, yes. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England." America smiles slyly at him. "No wonder he was your favourite. He clearly worshipped you."

"He used to do this," England says. "Exactly what he's doing now, on his knees and all, when he was drunk. He did it that night on the stage. It was a joke. We all used to laugh."

England is not laughing now. He looks desperately upset, like he wants to wrench away his arm but can't bring himself to.

"Well, now you get to relive those times, all thanks to me," America says cheerily. "Better than sitting in a dark room with Oscar Wilde, don't you think?"

"Alfred–"

"Of course, I don't plan to leave him like this. I was studying how they make their wax models at Madame Tussaud's and I think I can make him look like he's properly alive again, skin and hair and eyes and the like. You remember what he really looked like, you can help me."

" _Alfred_ –"

"And I think with some fresher organs, like a real heart and a new tongue and probably a brain, haha, he will be far more articulate. Then you can have a proper conversation with him and it'll be just like old times. Isn't that what you wanted, Arthur? Didn't you want Shakespeare back?" America points to his creation, still mumbling his famous words against England's skin. "Look, I got him for you. Isn't that worth at least a kind smile?"

England's eyes dart towards him. He looks a little bit unhinged. "Are you truly suggesting that you thought I would have _wanted_ you to do this?"

America blinks. "Well, no, not exactly, but–"

"William Shakespeare was my friend. How could you think that I would want you to turn him into... into _this_?"

"Look, you said you wanted the damn skull and then I _got_ you the damn skull and you didn't want it, you wouldn't even believe me, so what else what I supposed to do?!"

"What _else_?!" England explodes, pulling away his hand. "If you truly believed that it was Shakespeare's skull then why didn't you put it back in the grave?! That's what I wanted!"

"Then you should have said so! I'm not a mind-reader, Arthur!"

"I didn't say so because I didn't believe you. You're a goddamn opportunist, do you blame me?!"

"Well, the joke's on you because I was telling the truth. It really _is_ his skull, just as I said, and now it's too late to shove it back in his grave." America nods again at his creation, the empty eye sockets turned up towards England. "Besides, look how happy he is to see you."

"Well, I am certainly not happy to see _him_ – not like this." England seizes the front of America's shirt, twisting it in his trembling fist. "Turn him off and take him apart, immediately. I'll take the skull back to Trinity Church myself."

"After all my hard work? I don't think so."

" _You don't think so_? You had absolutely no right to do this–"

"Well, gee, I was just trying to please you! You don't care about anything I do, Arthur, no matter how hard I try. We were so close when I was a child–"

"But that isn't what you want now," England says coldly. "You've already admitted that."

"Well, obviously flowers don't work!"

"And did you honestly think that I would throw myself into your arms – into your _bed_ – when I saw this?!"

"Yes. No." America shrugs hopelessly. "I don't know."

England looks at him in disbelief. "You're completely insane."

"Well, I guess I'm willing to try anything."

"So it would appear." England releases his shirt. "It stops _now_ , Alfred. I believe I've made myself perfectly clear."

"Crystal."

"Good. Now turn him off."

England turns his back on him very firmly and America really is left with no choice but to shuffle angrily towards the generator in obedience. Once again, he has been dealt a crushing defeat – and this one seems very final. There is no way England will ever visit at his invitation ever again. He has blown it, well and truly, but what else could he have done?

"I'm so very sorry," England says; and America looks up hopefully again. Perhaps he has recognised his harshness, his unreceptiveness to America's many efforts–

No. He's talking to William, a gentle hand on the stolen skull.

"I'm sorry that he has done this terrible thing to you," he says, "and I'm sorry that your bones were moved against your wishes. I will personally return your skull to your grave, Will, I promise."

Will. _Will_. That is _it_.

He kills the current coursing through the construction's makeshift body, watching it twitch and tremble and then fold lifelessly in on itself. England catches it, cradling the skull in its descent so that it won't crack or smash on impact.

"Thank you," he says stiffly, not looking at America. "Now unbolt his skull from this abomination. I'm leaving tonight."

America does not reply, hoisting up the generator by the lever and the handle. It's heavy as hell but he's immensely strong, always has been, and it's really nothing to him. It is, however, enough to crush a skull.

"Alfred?"

England hears him move behind him but he's not fast enough; he turns just in time to see America swing the generator towards him. He probably doesn't see much else because the impact kills him immediately, his body dropping next to William's amidst an arc of splattered bone and brain and blood. If he wants to make a fuss about skulls, his own is completely pulverised.

Still, he won't stay dead for long, especially not now he's an empire. America knows he has to work quickly, tossing the generator aside. He moves William to the table first, then England, and begins to build.

* * *

...Well, I did promise that it got weird. _Frankenstein_ -weird, in fact! XD (Tbh this was foreshadowed so heavily in earlier chapters in my usual very unsubtle manner that I am surprised nobody called me on it!)

There will be one more chapter (more of an epilogue sort-of-thing) and THEN _The Waning_ , I PROMISE. T.T


	5. V

Last chapter! ...At long fucking last, omg.

Thank you to all my lovely reviewers: **Mythomagic101, Narroch, AnyaZeAwesomeGlaceon, Londonut, yoong, Dirunal Days, Angelfaux, Ash, Sdiana7** and **Aengland**!

And England Keep My Bones

V

"Of course, none of it is official yet," England says calmly, "but that is essentially the long and short of it."

There is silence. The room is crowded with men – nations and a great many of their human representatives, gathered from all corners of England's empire – and for a long stretched moment, a pin might be heard to drop. America, standing quietly by his side at the podium, smiles benignly over them all as their gazes run wildly between he and England. Nothing like a bombshell to shake up a boring old gathering of the clans.

Still, they should have realised that something was afoot when they were all called to New York.

Canada puts up his hand. England tilts his head at him.

"Yes?"

Canada stands, his lilac eyes settling on America. "So let me just clarify," he says, "for everyone here – because I think we can all agree that it sounds like complete insanity."

A murmuring of disgruntled agreement goes through the crowd.

"I fail to see how I was unclear," England replies, "but by all means, if it pleases you."

"As I understand it, what you have said is that you are passing over the sovereignty of your empire to Alfr—I mean, to America." Matthew's eyes narrow as he looks at his twin. "And, with it, all of us."

America smiles at him. "It's not exactly a gift," he says. "More a sharing process in which we both have an equal measure of power. Arthur will still be the British Empire."

"Yes – in name only," Matthew says savagely. "I'm sure you've seen to that, Alfred."

America shrugs. He looks at England, who has nothing to say, before turning his attention back to the room. "Well, the way I see it, I'm doing you all a huge favour," he drawls. "Who the hell wants to be part of an empire? I mean, what is this, ancient Rome? You can all be states instead."

This is met with an uproar of disapproval, a great many of them getting to their feet, shouting, gesturing. He can see Australia flipping him off from the back row.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

"How can you have made such a decision without consulting us?!"

"Does Her Majesty know?!"

The Canadian ambassador stands, red in the face as he points an accusing finger at America. "The United States did all it could to sever their ties with you and now you reward the foremost culprit! It was he that orchestrated the treachery for his own gain, raising an army against you while Matthew remained loyal!" He claps a trembling hand to Canada's shoulder. "Is this how you will repay him? Is this how you will repay _us_ after all we have given to you?"

"You speak the truth," England replies, perfectly unruffled, "but times are growing uncertain. Europe is restless and warfare is growing ever more mechanised. None of you in this room have military strength equal to my own. The United States does. Alfred is the only logical choice."

There is another outcry at this.

"A logical choice? I was not aware that you were a debutante!"

"India's military strength is second to none!"

"The United States has no place amongst us, never mind atop!"

England is completely unmoved by their wails, standing impassively before them, his face barely flickering. America grins, enjoying the show. This is even better than he had expected. Many of these grown men, reserved in their waistcoats and top hats, are going into complete and utter meltdown. Still, he can't blame them. It is unexpected news.

"My decision is final," England says over the rabble. "That will be all. Good day."

He steps down from the podium, sweeping down the steps and out of the room in clean, quick succession. America follows him, aware of the crowd jostling from their seats, baying for blood. He turns, shuts the doors and bolts them, keeping back the tide. Now they will have to go around the other way and that will take time.

He trots after England, catching him up.

"That was good," he says reassuringly.

"Do you think so? I do hope nobody thought I was acting strangely." England sighs through his nose. "It really is bothersome having lost my memory, you know. I really can't recall the simplest of things." He takes an uneasy look over his shoulder. "You were certainly correct, though. It is for the best that those men do not find out about my amnesia. The way they behaved back there when I announced our joint sovereignty... well, they are quite savage, aren't they?"

"They would definitely take advantage of you if they knew," America says solemnly. "They'd tell you that you agreed to things that you never promised, they'd want money and power... Still, you can trust me. I can do all the dirty work until you get your memory back."

"Yes." England frowns, rubbing at his forehead. "It _is_ kind of you, Alfred. At the moment I'm not good for much, I confess. I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached."

America laughs. _Perfect_. "At least you're good at acting," he says cheerfully. "Just remember to say what I tell you and everything will be alright, Arthur."

England nods. He's still frowning. He always reacts a little bit... _off_ to the name. Still, early days, early days.

Their cab is waiting outside to whisk them off to America's townhouse and they're able to make a speedy getaway before the hoarde of angry British subjects spill out after them. They still have a lot of paperwork and legislation to finalise, after all – this is quite unlike acquiring a new state, which consists of either a war or moving the Frontier (or sometimes both). They spend the rest of the afternoon in the drawing room creating favourable agreements, slicing and dicing over coffee and cigars.

"I don't see the need to break it all up," America says. "Ivan might see that as an opportunity to invade."

"Ivan?"

"Braginski. Russia. You know."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Another frown. "My apologies."

"It's alright, Arthur."

"...Are you truly sure that that is my name?" England is rubbing at his forehead again. "Something about it just..."

"Of course your name is Arthur – like King Arthur." Alfred folds his arms. "Or you can be England or Britain or British Empire or the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

"Yes, that last one... that's when King James..." England is looking rather absently at the wall. America shakes him.

"Arthur."

"Oh." England shakes his head, blinking at him. "I beg your pardon. I keep doing that."

"It's alright," America says again. He kisses him on the cheek. He tastes like wax. "Still, I think it would be best if I were to take charge of running everything for now – at least until you're better."

"Won't that be too much for you?"

"Not if we make them all states. I know they didn't seem too keen but at least that way, I won't have to create separate laws and taxes and the like for them."

England looks a little bit dubious. "I suppose... that does make sense but..."

"But what?" America takes his hand. "Arthur... don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you–"

"Or would you prefer to break it up after all? If the others are going to make such a fuss, then perhaps they should get a share too."

"For some reason I feel that such a thing would not end well," England says. "No, I agree that this way is best. On the surface of it, I will still be in charge – but the power goes to you. You take it all, Alfred."

"Only if you insist."

"I do insist. In my current condition, I really am not fit for it. Besides, if things are truly as you say, with Europe destabilising and weapons growing ever more deadly, it makes sense to me that we should form this alliance."

"Hm." America looks away, his eyes glancing over George Washington above the fireplace. "Still, I can understand why the others are so outraged. I have leapfrogged over all their heads to become more powerful than they could ever dream of. They do not forgive what I did in 1776." He looks again at England, clutching his hand tighter. "But _you_ forgive me, Arthur, don't you?"

"It would seem so." England, too, is staring at the painting of Washington. "Not that I can recall."

"It was just a little quarrel. You were being very unreasonable."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"But it's alright," America goes on warmly. "I forgive you, too."

England squeezes his hand but does not look at him. He is staring and staring at the painting of Washington. He does this a lot, frowning, empty-handed. Of course he doesn't recognise him.

A knock comes at the drawing room door and an aide leans in.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but you have a visitor." The aide pauses. "A Mr Matthew Williams from the Canadian Embassy."

England stiffens ever so slightly at the name – at _Williams_ , specifically – and America stands up.

"Tell him I can't see him right now."

"I already let him in, sir. He's in the parlour."

"Well, too damn bad. Can't you see I'm already occupied–"

"Alfred, it's alright." England stands, too, placing a hand to his elbow. "I really ought to be going, anyway. I'm sailing back to London in a few days and I have much to do before then."

"But we're not done, I mean, you haven't–"

"I can spare you a few hours in the morning. We can finish the paperwork then."

Ugh. America knows he doesn't have much choice. He nods to the aide.

"Fine. Show him in."

"Very good, sir."

"Don't look so sulky." England pinches at America's cheeks, tugging at his scowl. "You'll get what I promised."

"He's doing this on purpose," America growls, shaking his head free. "He knew you'd be here, he–"

"Hmm." England smiles at him. "Possessive, aren't you?" He steps past him. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Wait." America catches at his arm, stopping him–

Just as the door opens and Canada enters the room. He looks livid.

"Arthur, don't let him bully you into this!" he cries. "I don't know how he's talked you into this but this isn't _like_ you, it's...!"

He trails off – probably because England is looking rather blankly at him. He looks between them in complete despair. "Alfred, you know this is total madness!"

America gives a lazy shrug. "It's Arthur's decision what he wants to do with his empire."

"There's no way in hell he'd want to give it to _you_!"

"I'll thank you to mind your own business," England says coolly. "Now I really must be going."

"Alright." America gives a tug on his arm, pulling him in for a kiss. It's chaste, no tongue, barely any teeth, but it's enough that it's done right in front of Canada. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip as he releases him. "See you tomorrow, Arthur."

England gives him a smile, a nod, a brief glance up and down before turning away. He doesn't give Canada a second look as he sweeps out of the drawing room.

America pauses a moment to give it just the right effect when at last he slides his gaze towards his twin. Canada is speechless.

"Can I help you with something?" America asks, folding his arms. "Because honestly you _did_ interrupt us."

"What did you do to him?" Canada asks in a low voice. "Alfred. Seriously. That is _not_ Arthur."

"Of course it's Arthur. Who else would it be?"

"Then you've... brainwashed him or... or something!" Canada bursts out. "How could his personality – and his opinion of _you_ – change so much?!"

America shrugs. "Guess he saw the error of his ways. He always did like me best, you know."

"Yeah – before you and George Washington stabbed him in the back!"

"We agreed to let bygones be bygones. It's done now, right?"

"Oh?" Canada says nastily. "And his way of making it up to you was to give you his _entire empire_?!"

"Hey, he's a generous guy. I mean, maybe not to you – but to someone he sees as an equal–"

"I"m not buying that bullshit, Alfred. I don't know how you did it but you engineered this. You're the only one who stands to gain from it."

Alfred grins at him. "Well, good luck proving it," he chirps. "Now why don't you go home and start deciding what number state you'd like to be."

Canada shakes his head at him in disbelief, his lilac eyes wide. "You're an absolute monster, Alfred."

"I'm good at getting what I want. That doesn't make me a monster."

"It does if you crush others to get it!"

"Then your precious Arthur is the biggest monster of all, isn't he?" America tilts his head. "You might argue that we belong together."

Canada says nothing for a long moment. His fists are clenched at his sides.

"How did you do it?" he asks at length.

"How did I do what?"

"How did _you_ , of all people, manage to make him fall in love with you?" Canada snaps. "Your idea of a romantic gesture is to dig up a disgusting skull!"

"Oh, that." America's smile does not waver. "Well, let's just say... that the skull played its part after all."

* * *

He put a new lock on the door but it's probably unneeded. Better safe than sorry, is all. The key gleams like a new quarter as he turns it, the old door creaking open at his command. He locks it again behind him, sliding the key into his pocket as he crosses the room. It's dark, the curtains drawn, the evening closing in, so he turns on the gaslamp at the bedside. The greasy light flickers over the faded wallpaper and tattered hangings as America sinks onto the edge of the bed.

England doesn't react to either. Well, he wouldn't.

"Arthur." America talks to him gently, leaning down, touching his face. "I came to see you."

England does not react at all. This is nothing new, nor is it unsurprising. He cannot see, after all, and he cannot speak. America gives the ropes at his wrists a quick tug to check them. The knots are still tight, securing him to the bed posts. He hasn't been struggling.

"I thought you might like to know that William is getting on splendidly," America says. He lies down alongside him, getting comfortable. "Your eyes, your tongue, your brain... He is making good use of them all. I prefer to keep him amnesiac, otherwise he'll start taking on all your petty grievances against me and he won't do as I suggest, but overall his performance is to be marvelled at." America smiles. "Well, I suppose he was an actor too, wasn't he? Who better to play the role of England than William Shakespeare?"

Nothing. England is definitely still alive – he's breathing, his fingers twitch – but truthfully America has hollowed him out, transplanting him into an abomination. It was the only way to do it, in the end. England is an empire – his body is much too powerful to be bent to America's will.

"He's so much nicer than you are," America goes on, rubbing at England's cheek. He goes too high, hits the bloodied gauze wrapped over his eye sockets. "But I suppose that's only because he doesn't have your memories. You used to be nice like that. I really shouldn't have needed to pull out your brain to get a kind word out of you." Now he runs his fingers down over his lips – dry, cracked. "I mean, it's your tongue, too, so I suppose that counts."

He puts his head on England's chest. He left his heart in, mostly because William is powered by electricity and doesn't need it, but also because it's comforting to hear it. England is otherwise akin to a corpse – and besides, it reminds him of when he was a child.

"I think he sort of knows, in some way," he mumbles. "I suppose it _is_ still his skull, even if your brain is in there. There's bound to be a bit of an echo." He looks up at him. "...This isn't really what I wanted, you know. I mean, I wasn't planning it. If you had just been nicer to me, I wouldn't have had to do this." He runs his thumb along his jaw. "This England never did, nor never shall lie at the proud foot of a conqueror but when it first did help to wound itself." Silence. Then, reproachful: " _See_ , I know Shakespeare."

Nobody is accusing him of anything, of course, least of all England, but he finds himself defensive all the same. He cuddles against him, closing his eyes. "...Well, anyway, you forgive me, Arthur, don't you?"

Long has he imagined what he would do with England at his mercy, fuelled by lust for bodies and bloodshed and borders; but when it comes to it, his tongue and eyes and mind given away, he is but earth. This is what he should want, perhaps – in England's Shakespeare's Richard's words, blessed plot, earth, realm (without a tongue to talk back; to tell who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravished thee). His kiss is lost in an empty mouth. He is too early, perhaps, or far too late. Shakespeare never wrote words of worship about America's earth.

All form is formless, order orderless, save what is opposite to England's love. The game is afoot. The rest is silence.

* * *

If eyes and tongues being cut out seems gruesome... welp, that's Shakespeare for you! This has echoes specifically of Gloucester in _King Lear_ , whose eyes are gouged out, and Lavinia in _Titus Andronicus_ , whose tongue is cut out (and her hands cut off, both to prevent her from naming her rapists). Interestingly, _King John_ 's Prince Arthur – who speaks the line this fic takes its title from – is also meant to have his eyes put out with hot irons; he manages to talk his way of out of it but then dies anyway. By falling off a wall. I know I mention this a lot but I really just can't get over it (and apparently neither could he).

There are a lot of Shakespeare quotations in here – the last three sentences notwithstanding – but sadly I did not get my bae Mercutio in here at all. :C

Halloween is fast approaching so next up: _The Waning_! (...Finally. T.T)


End file.
